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“You tell me.”
“I went to meet her at the stone cabin the Youngers own on Sweathouse Creek. I went to tell her I’d made a mistake, that I didn’t want to hurt her and maybe not her husband, either. I went there to tell her I was wrong.”
“What happened?”
He had put down his biscuit and was staring at his plate. “She said she and her husband had just visited their daughter’s grave. She said he was full of grief. She said maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.”
“That should have been it, right? I mean, she was admitting the mistake, and so were you. That’s all people can do.”
“It didn’t work out that way. She said she’d fallen in love with me and she didn’t want me to go away. She didn’t care if I was old or fat or a drunk or a guy who’s done some stuff he won’t ever talk about.”
“You got it on with her?”
“Why don’t you put it up there on the blackboard so the customers can read about my sex life while they check out the daily special?”
“Clete, what are you doing?”
“Getting my daughter out of the can. I thought that’s why we came to town.”
“I didn’t mean to sound judgmental.”
“Except you are judgmental, and it makes me feel like somebody poured liquid pig flop in my shoes.”
“Is she going to leave her husband?”
“We didn’t talk about that.”
“This is going to tear you up, partner.”
“What am I supposed to do about it? Rip out my genitalia? Kill myself?”
“Bail out of it.”
“That’s why I met with her at the cabin Sunday night. Except things didn’t work out as planned. I didn’t get home till two in the morning.”
I started to tell him I didn’t need any more details, then realized how cruel that would be. Across the street, the homeless people were out on the sidewalk sailing a Frisbee. “We’ve been in worse trouble,” I said.
“When?” he asked.
“Gretchen didn’t do Zappa. That’s all we have to keep in mind right now. We get her out of jail, and we get rid of this bogus murder beef,” I said.
“How?”
“I saw an antique Winchester inside the camper shell on Wyatt Dixon’s truck. It looked like an 1892, the one with the elevator sight. It wouldn’t be unlikely for him to own a couple of smoothbore black-powder pieces. Montana has a primitive weapons big-game season that opens in the early fall. It’s the kind of gig Dixon would be up for.”
“You think Dixon capped Zappa?”
“He told me an eye for an eye. I think he meant it.”
“I got something else bothering me, Dave. You think Gretchen might have a thing for Dixon?”
“She has better judgment,” I replied.
“But it’s a possibility?”
“Give her some credit.” I tried to sound convincing. I doubted if anyone knew what went on inside the head of Gretchen Horowitz.
“This is a crock, isn’t it?” Clete said.
